9

When Shen Chi returned, Rong Qian immediately hid in Shen Yi's room.

She cracked open the window, just enough to glimpse the dramatic scene unfolding below—several vintage cars from the last century parked in stately formation, and at the center, a Lamborghini Miura, the 1967 model, gleaming like a trophy of wealth and power. Clearly, Shen Chi was no ordinary man—he was extravagance personified.

A line of bodyguards in black stood like statues, lending the scene the weight of a gangster film. Rong Qian, a modern soul from a rational age, couldn't help but roll her eyes inwardly—was this a family home or a movie set? It all felt like an overly theatrical show of force.

Ironically, years later, she would witness a similar spectacle when Shen Yi became a man. Back then, the same display wouldn't strike her as excessive. When greatness arrived, it demanded an entourage.

Shen Chi resembled his son in appearance—sharply defined features, commanding presence—but the similarities ended there. Where Shen Yi's future self was refined, gentle, and charismatic, Shen Chi exuded an oppressive ruthlessness, a man whose every step echoed control and cruelty.

Without warning, Shen Chi lifted his head and glanced directly toward her window. Though there was no way he could see her, Rong Qian instinctively pulled back, heart pounding. When she turned, she saw Shen Yi trembling, his frail body betraying the terror his face tried to hide.

She understood immediately—he feared his father.

Rong Qian ducked into the wardrobe before Shen Chi entered, holding her breath as she curled into a tight ball in the shadows. This time, she didn't dare make a sound. Shen Chi was too sharp—one creak, one breath too loud, and she'd be exposed.

He didn't say much. Flipping through a piano book, he randomly chose a page and ordered Shen Yi to play. The moment the melancholic notes of Beethoven's "Pathétique" filled the room, Rong Qian froze. What kind of monster demanded a twelve-year-old child master such a tormenting piece?

Shen Yi fumbled through it—not perfect, but complete. Yet Shen Chi's expression grew darker. Then came the blow.

A harsh slap echoed through the room.

"Useless," Shen Chi spat, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him with a crash. His departing voice barked one more command: "No food for him today."

Rong Qian clenched her fists.

A child—his own child—denied food? What kind of deranged tyrant punishes growth with starvation?

When the footsteps finally faded, she emerged. Shen Yi was still at the piano, playing the same sonata again and again. She approached but stopped short of touching him. Instead, she simply sat beside him—silent, steadfast.

That day, no meals arrived. Rong Qian could endure the hunger, but Shen Yi couldn't afford to.

Late at night, while the household slept and thunder roared outside, she snuck into the kitchen. She returned with bread, a few pieces of baguette, and two cans of milk. But as she crept back, a scream cut through the storm—a woman's scream, raw and shattering.

It came from Yan Qingyao's room.

The sounds escalated: smashing glass, anguished howls, violent sobs. Rong Qian's blood boiled. That monster was hurting his wife.

Then, at the corridor's end, lightning lit up a small figure—Shen Yi, standing motionless, drenched in shadow. He'd heard everything.

Rong Qian darted forward, scooped him up, and rushed back. Inside the room, she shut the door, pressed his head to her chest, and covered his ears.

"This isn't your burden," she told him quietly. "They made their choices. You're not responsible for their pain."

Still, he was silent. She hugged him tighter.

"I'll stay with you. I promise."

"Will you really stay?" he asked, barely a whisper.

She hesitated—but nodded. "Yes. I will."

That night, he fell asleep with her hand in his, a fragile trust blooming between them.

The next morning, she heard the roar of an engine—Shen Chi was leaving. Shen Yi rose late, but still insisted on his daily run. His discipline made her proud—what a remarkable little student she had.

As he jogged outside, she stretched, preparing for a short nap, when footsteps approached. Alert, she dashed into the wardrobe.

The door opened.

Through the slats, she saw a woman stumble in—hair disheveled, her body marked with bruises, blood staining her lips. Clutched in her hand was a fruit knife. Her eyes blazed with madness.

Yan Qingyao.

She staggered into the room like a storm, flinging books off shelves, howling, and finally pounced on the bed, stabbing the pillow over and over like it were a living enemy.

"Enough!" Rong Qian seized her wrist.

Yan Qingyao froze, her gaze vacant. Rong Qian struck swiftly, knocking her unconscious. Catching her fragile body, she realized with horror how light she was—barely ninety pounds, delicate as porcelain.

She carried her back to her own room and was met with carnage—bloodied sheets, shattered decor. Setting her down gently, Rong Qian turned her eyes away, her heart aching.

Whatever happened last night, it was horrific.

She cleaned up as best she could, replaced the linens, and returned to Shen Yi's room just in time.

He never knew.

She couldn't rewrite his past—but she could soften its edges. That, she vowed, was enough.